


Been Here Before

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: A Place So Dark [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pre-Fake AH Crew, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 12:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19973821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Michael’s made a lot of questionable decisions in his life.





	Been Here Before

**Author's Note:**

> Michael's character wearing the Tron suit in recent GTA V videos gave me the idea for an alternate version of A Place So Dark where he's the one who dies instead of Gavin. (And then has the whole supernatural shenanigans happen to him. Because reasons.)

Michael’s made a lot of questionable decisions in his life. 

Just about everything he’s ever done in life would fall under that category when he thinks about it, because they all led to him ending up in Los Santos.

Which, fine. 

Made sense in its own when way considering the whole questionable choices thing – of fucking course he’d end up in a city like Los Santos before long.

But then he had the bad luck to run into Gavin, didn’t he. Let his guard down and let the little shit into his life, let him burrow under his skin to the point he couldn't imagine life without him in it.

Got soft. Got _stupid_.

Made the mistake of thinking they could do better than their shitty little apartment and the shit Michael did to pay his share of the rent, put food on the table. The terrible things he did and fought tooth and nail to keep Gavin from finding out about.

Squirreled away money here and there, took riskier and riskier jobs hoping he could use the extra money to get them out of Los Santos. Get them to somewhere closer to normal where he could look into getting an honest job, get out of the criminal life and all that Vinewood happily ever bullshit. 

Oh, no mistake where he’d end up when he bit it, not with the things he’d done. But maybe, maybe, he could pretend for a little while.

Live the white picket lifestyle as long as he could and hope it would be enough. (Getting Gavin the hell out of Los Santos alone would have been worth it. Get him settled in a city where he could have a normal life was what Michael wanted.)

But then he’d run into Rat-face and Carmine and Michael’s had to learn the hard way not to ask too many questions, doing what he did, but those two?

They made his skin crawl, left a bad taste in his mouth.

Carmine was a petty, vicious bastard and Rat-face didn’t seem to have anything resembling a conscience.

Gave Michael job and expected him to carry them out, no questions asked.

And he did, for a while.

Figured the poor bastards they sent him after deserved it. 

No such thing as an innocent in this line of work, this kind of city, or so he told himself. A job’s a job and he was getting paid a lot to handle their little problems so he kept his head down and did what they told him to even if he hated himself for it.

But then they wanted him to send a message to some asshole, remind him who he worked for.

 _“The hell does his wife have to do with this?”_ he’d asked, unthinking, stunned by the sudden shift.

Missed the look that passed between Carmine and Rat-face as he’d stared at the photo they’d given him to ID her, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. (All too aware he was in too deep to back out now, that Carmine and Rat-face wouldn’t just let him walk away with everything he knew.)

 _“We’ve got a newbie,”_ Rat-face had said, tone to his voice setting off alarms in the back of Michael’s head. _“We want you to show him the ropes.”_

And Michael - 

In too deep to back out, secrets – people – of his own to protect and he’d known then there wouldn’t be a happy ending for him.

He’d been right, of course.

Carmine and Rat-face saddling him with this asshole with a sour face who didn’t like him one fucking bit. Looked at Michael like he knew he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as him, as Carmine and Rat-face, but too low down in the pecking order to just come out and say it.

Ignored Michael when he told the fucker to hold back when they started following the wife. Told him they should learn her habits, routines first before they killed her. Left the message Carmine wanted to get across to her husband.

Made it ugly, messy, and almost got them caught by the cops and so damn smug like he’d done something _good_.

Michael knew he was living on borrowed time after that. Knew it was only a matter of tie until they had Sour-face put a bullet in his back if they didn’t do it themselves and he started planning.

Intended to take what he knew and go to someone who could do something with it, put Carmine and Rat-face and that empire they were building and bring it tumbling down. Cut deals here and there, called in favors.

Did what he could to keep Gavin clear of it all because Michael knew he’d end up in jail after the dust settled – if he was lucky If Carmine and Rat-face didn’t catch wind of what he was up to. Wanted to make sure Gavin didn’t get caught up in any of it by association, tried to set things up so he’d be out of Los Santos when it happened. Surprise him with a trip home to see Dan again, but he never got the chance to set that part of things in motion.

Carmine and Rat-face and all of Michael’s shitty choices in life that got him killed.

“Fucking hell,” Michael mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest. 

Memory of a gunshot still fresh in his mind and Carmine’s face filling his field of view.. Stench of the warehouse they kept him in those last few days, pain and blood and questions he never gave them the right answers to. (Gavin on the other end of them, and Jeremy and the handful of people Michael refused to hand over to those fuckers.)

And what does he get for all of it?

Fucking _gray_.

Cold and choking as it creeps in through his mouth and nose and snakes its way down his throat and into his lungs.

The goddamned _bike_.

Sleek little thing like something Vinewood would dream up for some dumb movie. Low-profile and glowing softly. Pulsing in time with the beat of Michael’s heart along with the stupid suit he’s wearing.

It's not what he was expecting when Carmine pulled the trigger. 

Thought he’d land in some approximation of hell, or more likely nothing at all.

Just _bang_ , no more Michael Jones, colossal fuck up.

Not...this.

There’s a tug in the back of his mind, someone – something – that wants him to get on the bike. Do something instead of stand there and sort through his jumbled memories like an idiot trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.

(Terrible life choices.)

There’s a low growl from the bike, impatient, and Michael laughs because what the actual hell is his life? (Afterlife?)

“Fuck off,” he says, and looks around.

Gray as far as the eye can see, like mist rising off the ground and this chill in his bones.

No one else around. No _thing_ else around except for the damn bike and the sense he’s wasting time, _tick-tock, get a fucking move on Michael Jones_.

Vague memories of shows he watched with his family, friends, as a kid. Spirits and ghost and all their unfinished business and is that what he is now?

Carmine shot him in that warehouse and here he is. No trace of what that fucker did to him to show for it aside from the memories. (Phantom pain and the anger simmering in his chest the bike seems to echo.)

Middle place between heaven and hell and this sense of growing urgency to _do something_ before time runs out and no idea where to start with that.

Another growl from the bike, and maybe, maybe, if things weren't so weird Michael would pass it off as an engine that needs to be tuned. Something off with it, who the fuck knows.

But here and now?

It feels angry, in the back of his head. Like something alive, and when he walks over to it, lays his hand on the bike it feels warm.

Just about the only thing in the place that does, himself included.

Could be the fact it’s a _bike_ and the engine’s been running the whole time, but he doesn’t think that’s it.

“What the fuck,” Michael mutters, because the anger seething in his head stills for a moment. 

Goes quiet and still and the growling stops. Feels like he’s being watched, weighed and measured and who the fuck knows what happens if he’s found wanting.

(Trapdoor opens and he falls into hell where he belongs, or his stupid brain made all of this up and he wakes back up in that damn warehouse to live his last moments, maybe.)

The bike snarls, low and furious and Michael pulls his hand back. Stares at the damn thing, because what does that even mean?

“Use your fucking words,” Michael mutters, but it’s a bad joke, some weird reflex after being around Gavin so long and the way he just...doesn’t sometimes. Bird noises and Gavin noises and unintelligible gibberish he claimed were British slang but were just Gavin-isms. “Fucking seriously.”

The bike’s headlights snap on, piercing through the unrelenting gray around them like a beacon and Michael - 

Hell if he knows what he’s doing anymore, because he tosses what common sense he has to him along with the last shred of caution, and grabs the helmet resting on the seat.

Whatever the bike wants him to do has to be better than this.

========

Surprise, surprise, Michael was wrong.

 _Again_.

For starters, he’s been dead for a while. (Was dead? Fuck knows what he is now.)

He’s been dead for a while and Gavin is off playing junior detective. 

Cozying up to Carmine and Rat-face because he’s good with computers and Michael missed the part where Gavin wasn’t as squeaky clean as he thought.

“Fucking Christ,” Michael mutters, because Gavin is an idiot who’s going to get himself killed.

Couldn’t buy whatever story the cops fed him about Michael's death and went looking for answers and goddamn this is a clusterfuck.

Gavin’s set himself up in a shitty little apartment, mess everywhere and a complete disaster in the making. 

“You idiot,” Michael says, heart aching because Gavin should have forgotten all about him and moved on, but like the idiot he is, he didn’t. “You goddamned _idiot_.”

========

Somewhere on the south side of the city, a warehouse is on fire.

Before things got to that point however, there was general chaos and screaming. Gunfire, followed by an explosion and then actual fire. (Hence the warehouse being on fire.)

There was also _Gavin_ about to get a bullet to the head and Michael’s careful plans for the night had gone to shit.

(Go in. Fuck shit up. Get out. Not a complicated plan, but it’s all he needs at this stage of things.)

God, just the thought of it – of Gavin sticking his nose where it has no business being – makes Michael angry all over again. Has him doing an about face and stalking over to the little idiot in question.

They’ve had little run-ins before this, Michael watching Gavin dig himself even deeper into Michael’s mess and helpless to stop him because _Gavin_. 

Terrified something like this would happen and lucky as hell to be in a position to save Gavin from himself.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Gavin just stares at him.

Stares and stares and stares, and the longer he does the angrier Michael gets.

He knows Gavin, can guess at what stupid explanations – excuses – he’s about to give him and all that anger burning away inside Michael gets tangled up in the fear and worry for Gavin until they might as well be the same thing. 

“Michael?” Gavin says, so damn quiet.

Staring at Michael like he’s seen a ghost and Michael stares back until he realizes he’s still wearing his helmet.

No way for Gavin to know it was him until Michael snapped and started yelling at him, and even then Michael's supposed to be dead, isn’t he.

Died in an accident and why the hell anyone bothered with coming up a story as flimsy as that he’ll never know. Not like Carmine and Rat-face couldn’t have slipped the authorities a little bribe and spinning some sordid tale of Michael’s misdeeds in life. Paint him as just another scumbag getting their just rewards here in Los Santos, but whatever.

Michael pulls the helmet off and scowls at Gavin. Holds tight to his anger to hide how scared he is. (All the things he never got around to telling Gavin he should have made time for. The shit that got him killed, that almost got Gavin killed. Where they go from here.)

“Yeah,” Michael says, and the anger’s still with him (always), but the way Gavin’s looking at him, it doesn’t make it into his voice. “Yeah, it’s me idiot.”

Gavin makes this noise, some godawful thing Michael never wants to hear again because it’s too raw of a sound, broken and wrong, coming from someone like Gavin, and then the fucker tackles Michael.

Michael’s helmet gets knocked out of his hands, bounces somewhere past their feet as he catches Gavin, chokes a little when Gavin latches on tight. Lanky limbs and ungainly as hell but Jesus fuck does he have a hold on Michael, arms wrapped around him like he never wants to let go and hell if Michael doesn’t feel the same.


End file.
